


The Fountain of Anteros

by Tinkernat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Husband has been promoted to being named, Romance, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-01-31
Packaged: 2019-03-12 01:46:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13537050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinkernat/pseuds/Tinkernat
Summary: 'When she first met him, she was still Marthe Comtois and he still the Comte de la Fère.'Marthe meets the last person she expects at her anniversary ball.





	The Fountain of Anteros

When she first met him, she was still Marthe Comtois and he still the Comte de la Fère.

She remembered little of the style her mother had piled her hair into after much fussing. She recalled even less of the gown she was swathed in. The high decorated ceilings of her childhood home though, they were clear in her mind. She'd committed them to memory, along with the way the candlelight fell across her mother and father's face, already illuminated by joy. Her brother had stood by, pride flowing from every pore, the mirror of her father as he invited ladies graciously to the dance floor.

She knew she should have remembered the happiness in the smile of the man who was then her fiancé, but she couldn't bring herself to be guilty of remembering someone else entirely.

He was striking and handsome, where her fiancé was plain. His smile captivated her, only revealed in pure unadulterated joy. His eyes were honest and kind, not apathetic and cold.

If it had been one of her books, he would have swept her away and damned the consequences. He would have looked at her admiringly, as she did him. The gentleness of his hands as they danced would have meant more than courtesy between acquaintances.

Instead, she was left with the aloof gaze and clumsy hands of her fiancé. All fairy tales were reserved for the Comte's beautiful new wife, Anne d'Athos.  
*  
Several years and a lifetime away from her engagement ball, she stood in the centre of another ballroom. Unlike that evening, which glowed gold around the edges in her youthful exuberance, this evening was a much more sedate affair. A fine tension prickled at her muscles, even as she twirled gracefully into the arms of her husband to begin the dancing for the evening. Everyone she had spoken to was speaking around bated breath since for all its appearance of her anniversary ball, the presence of the King’s Musketeers was a palpable reminder that this had transformed into a diplomatic event. 

Her husband’s hands are less clumsy now and more welcome, a familiar weight and safety around her waist. Even though his gaze is still aloof, there is a comfortable understanding between them now. Marthe takes a slow breath to steady herself as she catches sight of the Musketeer blue over the shoulder of her husband, readying for an evening of watching her words and mannerisms around their guest. Her husband barely glances at her but squeezes her hand comfortingly when the dance comes to an end.

There is a moment then, where time feels suspended. She pulls back slightly from her husband to stand beside him. There is a smattering of polite chatter in the break from the music, a preternatural stillness falling over the room in the transition between moments. The swirling alcohol warms the atmosphere more efficiently than any fire, though there is more caution than wine in the guest's mouths. 

All attention is drawn by the Duchess of Savoy, flanked by Musketeers instead of her husband, rising from her seat at the head of the hall. Marthe’s husband leads her towards the Duchess, who he ostensibly calls cousin though the truth is far more convoluted. The Duchess regards them with a sort of genuine fondness, though it is the reserved type saved for distant relations. The Duchess voices some formal congratulations to her husband. But Marthe can hardly account for the words, as her eyes drift over to the Musketeer standing at the Duchess’s shoulder. 

She thinks perhaps the wine or the candlelight are playing tricks on her, for the man standing there is the double of the Comte de la Fere.

He is still handsome, though more rugged than she remembered. He does not smile, but the fine lines around his face told her he still did and often. His eyes are the most changed. They were world-weary and piercing, seeing through her every pretence. The blue is no longer soft and inviting, but froze the air in her lungs. 

Marthe is aware her husband and the Duchess still converse. She is aware her husband is squeezing her arm, a question wrapped in a reprimand. She is aware she is staring at him, that he can’t have helped but notice. Yet she cannot bring herself to care. A man that had become her own private fairytale in the privacy of her mind, a man most of the world has assumed dead and disgraced, is standing in her ballroom, strong, vital and dressed like a soldier. He becomes wary under her gaze, a hardness coming over his features and she no longer marvels at his going unnoticed. Here is a man of combat and living hand to mouth. It’s written in his bearing and demeanour. He’s become the sort of man aristocracy do not look at twice and for that Marthe can hardly blame him. 

Marthe has no idea how long she has been staring when the force of her husband’s grip becomes too painful to ignore and she looks back to the Duchess. There is a knowing glint in the Duchess’s eyes that Marthe chooses to be grateful for. She can live with being seen ‘eying up a soldier’ if it will keep her from asking questions.  
Marthe makes the effort to attend to the polite conversation, studiously avoiding looking over the Duchess’s shoulder. Her husband’s grasp relaxes more with each cordial response she gives and by the time the first trill of a new song floats through the hall his hand is nearly slack. Genially, he offers his not-quite-cousin a dance and she accepts gracefully. Marthe feels almost adrift as they leave her side and join the couples lining the hall, the burning presence of the Musketeer the only thing she is fully aware of.

There is a moment she knows, as all eyes watch the dancers assemble before the music starts in earnest, that she has to herself. She should move to greet her guests, strengthen ties with the Duchess’s party or even to gain refreshment. Yet as the Musketeer turns to move away, all she can find the urge to do is clutch at his arm.  
His eyes are wide with alarm, but Marthe cannot seem to look away. Without conscious direction, her feet take small steps towards him until she is close enough to hear his steady breaths. His weaponry clinks as he shifts on the spot, reminding her this is not the man she once knew, yet the hand he brings to her wrist to remove her grip is gentle and achingly familiar. She cannot help the shaky breath that leaves her.

“Meet me at the Fountain of Anteros in the lower garden at dawn,” she whispers hardly able to find her voice. 

He scrutinises her face intently, prying her fingers from the worn leather of his uniform carefully, “I do not have the pleasure of understanding my lady.” 

“Please Comte,” she is aware she is pleading as he slips her hand off his arm.

He freezes before he can take a step from her. The music rises up around them as the dance begins. Yet neither move; there is recognition in his eyes now and a vice she didn’t know was around her chest releases. Slowly, he nods his head and Marthe gulps down relief at his assent. 

Then he is gone, swallowed by her guests and his brothers in arms. She accepts the salutations of another Comtesse as serenely as she can, barely registering her words or simpering actions. 

Her mind is back on his gentle hands.


End file.
